


Wichita

by ArchOfImagine, hufflecas



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Rape, Pre-Series, Prostitution, Sharing a Bed, Sibling Incest, Top Dean, Wincest - Freeform, gratuitous mentions of Dean covered in chocolate, mentions of bottom Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-15 02:30:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2212401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArchOfImagine/pseuds/ArchOfImagine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/hufflecas/pseuds/hufflecas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've used a system of code words since they were kids. Warnings that could be given quickly if the threat of danger was imminent. As time has passed, Dean has forgotten most of them. But he never forgets Wichita.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wichita

**Author's Note:**

> This story is pre-series and diverts from canon only slightly (no Stanford).

\- - -  
  
Wichita was implemented in 1993, when puberty hit Dean so hard he couldn't keep his hands off his dick if he’d tried. Unfortunately, living in a small motel room with a ten year-old brother who followed his every move didn't allow for much 'personal' time. So he sat his little brother down and explained.  
  
“Sammy, if I say ‘Wichita’ and go into the bathroom, it means I need you to leave me alone for at least thirty minutes, okay?”  
  
Sam, smartass that he was at ten, gave Dean an odd look and asked the only plausible question. “What takes thirty minutes in the bathroom?”  
  
“You don’t need to know.” Dean didn’t know whether to be annoyed or embarrassed. “Just do it, okay?”  
  
Sam didn't learn the real answer until he hit puberty himself three and a half years later. They were living in a rundown mobile home while John Winchester chased ghosts two thousand miles away. Dean's responsibility was, as always, to protect Sam and hold down their weak excuse for a real life.  
  
It was the longest they had stayed in one place - Sam going to school daily and Dean working at a grocery store stocking shelves.  
  
On Saturdays they watched cartoons and college football, never bothering to get out of their pajamas.  
  
Dean can still remember his little brother’s sudden reaction to a Victoria Secret ad during the game. He glanced over just in time to see Sammy shifting in his seat and pulling a worn out pillow over the bulge in his pants.  
  
"Wichita," Dean stated, pointing to the bathroom.  
  
Since Dean had gotten older and hadn't used the code word in years, Sam looked at him in confusion. "Huh?"  
  
It was then that Dean realized Sam had no idea how to handle his dick being hard. The kid was always too busy reading and studying to realize Playboy magazines existed. And it wasn't like John was ever around to give the 'birds and the bees' speech.  
  
 _Oh fuck_ , Dean thought. _I have to be Dad for this one. Shit._  
  
"Sam, your uh... your dick. Has it been getting hard a lot lately? Like when you wake up and shit? More than normal?" Rambling while nervous seemed to be his style, apparently.  
  
His little brother shifted again, his face turning an odd shade of red. "What the fuck, Dean, don't talk about my dick!" A moment passed, and Sam's fake anger turned to worry as he lowered his voice and leaned closer to Dean. "Is it broken?"  
  
"No. It's called puberty. Don't they teach that shit in school anymore?"  
  
"I missed that semester. We were in Texas."  
  
Dean frowned. "Oh." So much for the explanation being easy. "Well it's just... your body, reacting to stuff. Pictures. Boobs, mostly." He pointed to the TV. "You saw those hot models in the commercial and wanted to touch their boobs, right?"  
  
It was quickly becoming the most awkward conversation in history. For Sam, at least. "Maybe?"  
  
"So you see hot chicks and you think 'damn I want to get with that' and your brain sends a signal to your dick and BOING, you have a problem." Dean shrugged, reaching beside the couch to pick up his beer bottle from the case he had stolen. "First couple years suck because it happens all the fucking time. You'll learn to hide it. But for now, you call out Wichita, you lock yourself in the bathroom with the sink running, and stroke your dick until--" He stopped. He was unsure how to continue. It was easy to just finish the lesson and be done with it but, for some reason, any further and he knew he would picture his brother jerking off and coming all over the sink.  
  
He was already picturing it.  
  
Sam, desperate for relief and answers, pressed for more info. "Until what? I piss?"  
  
"God, kid. All of the fucking books you've read and you don't know what masturbating is?" He shook away his thoughts and pointed towards the bathroom. "It's not piss. It's come. It makes babies and is fucking sticky if you don't clean it up right away. Just go. Wank off and be done with it."  
  
Silence fell down around them.  
  
Sam lasted a whole ten minutes before he mumbled a soft, "Wichita," and rushed into the bathroom.  
  
  
\- - -  
  
Years passed with the Winchester boys more often than not having only each other to rely on. They lived in each others personal space so much so that dancing around each other and their personal needs became second nature.  
  
It was in the winter of 2000 that ‘Wichita’ gained a new meaning.  
  
It took every ounce of self-control that Dean had not to cry as soon as he was in the comfort of their familiar hotel room.  
  
He dropped the bag of food and medicine on the bed in front of Sammy and quickly locked himself in the bathroom. After turning the shower on as hot as he could stand it, he stripped away his clothes and ducked inside the stall.  
  
Dean prayed that the water would wash the blood away, as well as the memories.  
  
He just wanted to forget. Because it wasn't like he could take his pain out on Sam. He couldn't very well blame Sammy for being sick. It was fucking January in Michigan - it was bound to happen that one of them would end up sick.  
  
If anything, he blamed John for being gone so fucking long.  
  
Because Dean could hustle pool and poker like the best, but occasionally it wasn't enough. Occasionally he had to start trading things for money.  
  
And all he had to trade was his own body.  
  
The water ran cold long before he was ready to face his kid brother. He turned the knob and shut it off, drying his body carefully and moving slowly as he stepped out of the shower. The cold air accentuated pain that he hadn't felt before - pain in spots that he didn't deserve to feel pain in.  
  
 _Fuck._  
  
He eased himself slowly onto the cold, tiled floor and felt the night’s fear creeping up on him. He was a Winchester. Winchesters didn't cry.  
  
Dean couldn't stop the tears if he tried. They tumbled down his face with ease and he just accepted the fact that he would forever be different, and broken, after that moment, as he let his head lay on the spot where his arms were folded on his knees.  
  
It was exactly thirty minutes before he heard the distinct sound of a lock being picked. When the bathroom door swung open, Sam stood there staring. His hair was a shaggy mess and his nose was red and swollen, thanks to his cold. His eyes held concern. Dean should have known he couldn't hide his pain from Sammy. The kid was too smart for his own good sometimes.  
  
"What?" he whispered, barely lifting his head to look up at his brother.  
  
"Something's wrong. I wanna know what." Sam folded his arms, trying to look as determined as possible.  
  
There was no way on earth he was going to tell Sam. He shook his head and pointed past his brother. "You don't fucking need to know so go take your medicine and fuck off."  
  
The anger probably gave him away. Sam had the decency to look over his shoulder for a moment, before sitting down beside Dean on the bathroom floor.  
  
“Dude, I’m still naked. Go away,” Dean said, but it was half-hearted.  
  
Sam said nothing and they sat in silence for a few minutes, neither looking at nor touching the other.  
  
“Will you at least get up off the floor?” Sam asked. “I’m sick, and you’re still wet. This isn’t good for either of us.”  
  
Dean made an impatient sound and leaned forward to push himself to his knees, then rose to his feet. He grabbed a towel from the rack before he was even standing fully straight.  
  
Sam could swear he heard a grunt of effort as Dean had stood. He moved to follow his brother but something caught his eye on the floor. Against the creamed-corn yellow tiles a smear of red. Blood? How the hell did that get there? What had Dean done?  
  
Looking up, through the haze of his cold-infested brain, Sam finally saw the discoloration on Dean’s back. The bruise hadn’t fully formed, but when it did, it would be gnarly. He pulled himself up as well and reached his hand out to lay it on Dean’s arm. Scratches? More bruises… blood?  
  
“What the fuck happened to you, Dean? Were you on a hunt?”  
  
Dean gingerly pulled the towel around his waist and ignored his brother’s question. Not only did he not _want_ to answer, but he didn’t know how. How did a person admit to the things he had gone through? “No. We still got that whiskey?”  
  
Having grown up around Dean’s avoidance techniques, Sam recognised them for exactly what they were. He positioned himself between his brother and the door and looked Dean straight in the eye. “What. Happened.” The only response he got was Dean casting his eyes on the floor. Something wet and heavy flipped itself in Sam’s stomach when he realised what must have happened. He didn’t want to believe it but he had to say something because Dean never would. If he was wrong, he’d know from his brother’s reaction. He wanted to be wrong. “Were you… were you raped?”  
  
Dean growled, his hatred for himself turning into anger and frustration towards Sam. “You needed fucking medicine, Sam! That shit don’t grow on trees!” He wanted to shove his little brother out of the way, but it was hopeless with as weak as his body felt. The only strength he had was in his voice. “Dad left us eighty bucks, and that was _four fucking weeks ago.”_  
  
It took Sam less than three seconds to put two and two together. The revelation hit him like a truck. Dean hadn’t just had sex with a man, he’d done it for money.  
  
"So you let some guy  _fuck_ you?"  
  
"That wasn't part of the plan, okay? I wasn't going to go that far." He couldn't bring himself to say the words _it was just supposed to be a blowjob_ out loud.  
  
“So what, you’re a fucking hooker now? What the fuck, Dean?”  
  
Dean flinched immediately at the word. He hated everything about it. For some reason, he could accept it more in his head if he just said ‘ _I’m blowing a guy for a few bucks._ ’ But the word ‘hooker’, the label of _prostitute_ was so final… like, if he accepted it, that was all he would ever be. “Can I fucking get by now?” he mumbled, his voice soft and defeated. “I need a drink.”  
  
Sam relented then. All the fight had gone out of Dean’s voice, and that scared him more than any physical hurt he could see Dean with.  
  
Dean walked through the room holding the towel closed around his waist like it was armor. He moved slowly, flinching every time the pressure hit in a certain way and he felt it all the way up his spine. The whiskey was on the dresser and he opened the bottle without hesitation and drank deeply.  
  
Sam’s voice was quiet, but still too loud for the room. “Dean, if someone… if someone hurt you, you know that’s not your fault, right?”  
  
“We’re not talking about this, Sam.”  
  
“Like hell we aren’t! Dean, you could be seriously hurt, you should go see a--”  
  
“No fucking way,” Dean interrupted. He took another swig straight from the bottle. “I’ll be fine.”  
  
“But that’s… that’s what happened?”  
  
“Jesus Christ Sam, what do you want me to tell you?”  
  
“What were you thinking?” Sam could barely contain his anger.  
  
“I was thinking I could handle myself, and I usually do, okay? I fucked up. It happens.”  
  
“What do you mean you ‘handle yourself?’ How often do you do this?”  
  
“You sure ask a lot of fucking questions, you know that? Go to sleep, Sam. You’re still sick.” If Dean could have left the room he would have, but two beds in the living room was all the privacy he was going to get if he wanted to lie down. And Lord, did he need to lie down.  
  
Out of habit he sat down on the edge of the bed first, but that was a mistake. There was no hiding the shudder of pain that rippled through his entire body, especially when Sam was watching him like a goddamn hawk. He rolled onto his stomach on the far side of the bed, facing away from Sam. Every muscle of his body ached, and screamed for sleep, but he knew sleep would be a long time off.  
  
Sam sighed, because it was the only noise he could make that wasn’t a sob, or a curse, or a scream. He knew Dean wasn’t asleep yet, but also that there was no way he was going to acknowledge being awake any more that night. He had also “fallen asleep” on top of the blankets. Sam walked to his bed, and stripped the quilt and weird fuzzy velvet hotel blanket off the mattress. He turned off the lights and lay down beside Dean, his back facing his brother’s, before he spread the blankets over both of them. He braced himself for a protest, but none came.  
  
A thousand and one thoughts and questions swirled through Sam’s head. He felt like a failure for not preventing this, for not protecting Dean, and for not knowing how. How long had Dean been doing this sort of thing? Was he gay now? What was Sam supposed to do about any of it?  
  
He didn’t know how much time passed before he felt Dean’s weight shift behind him. Sam rolled onto his back, and reached a hand out in the darkness. He found Dean’s hand right about where he thought it would be, extended into the space between them, palm facing up. He laced their fingers together, and breathed deep.  
   
\- - -  
  
When Dean blinked his eyes open the next morning, his first thought was pain. Intense pain. He had rolled onto his back at some point in the night, and had no idea how he would move out of the position. He turned his head, spotting his brother laying beside him. Thankfully, Sam was facing the opposite direction.  
  
Biting his lip, he placed his hand flat on the bed and tried to push himself into a sitting position. Even the slightest movement forward, caused the bruising on his back to twitch and pull and he gasped, falling back down as the pain rippled along his spine. Too much. It was _t_ _oo much_. But he had to pee, and he needed more whiskey, and he would be damned if he wasn’t up and putting on a brave face when Sammy woke.  
  
Looking to his left, he noticed the edge of the bed and knew exactly how he could get up without moving his back. His arms and the front of his body weren’t nearly as sore. If he could just roll…  
  
Dean landed on the floor with a thud and a loud cry. “Unghhh!” He had completely forgotten about the scratches on his stomach. And the jolt of the landing had made his back jerk and spasm once more. “Fuck! Holy shit!”  
  
The noise jolted Sam awake immediately. He sat up, looking beside him at the empty bed and then around the room. “Dean?” He knew he had heard his brother cry out… so where exactly was he? Sam shoved the blankets aside and stood, going to check in the bathroom but finding nothing. “ _Dean?!_ ”  
  
A grunt sounded from the floor, between the bed and the wall. “Here.”  
  
Sam rounded the bed and saw his brother spread out on the floor, still wearing nothing more than the towel from the night before. That wasn’t the disturbing part. Dean’s back had a large strip right in the middle that was completely black and blue. There was also just the slightest hint of a bruise in the shape of a handprint on his side.  
  
Sam bit back the immediate urge to go out and kill whoever had done such horrible things to his brother. But he had bigger problems to worry about. “Can you move?”  
  
It was a stupid question, and Sam knew that as soon as he spoke.  
  
“Yeah. Just let me jump up and get dressed and we’ll go wrestle outside, how’s that sound?” The sarcasm leaked off of every one of Dean’s words - but Sam could still hear the pain masked beneath.  
  
He extended his hand to his older brother who said nothing but accepted the help up. As Sam hoisted Dean to his feet the towel came undone and slipped halfway down Dean’s thighs before he caught it.  
  
“Dude,” Sam started, averting his eyes, “put some clothes on, already.”  
  
“What do you think I was trying to do?” He walked slowly towards his duffel bag, feeling the pain in every inch of his body. He pulled out a t-shirt, a pair of shorts, and some jeans and set them on the bed before looking at them with a frown. Putting clothes on was easier said than done. He dropped the towel and grabbed his boxers, his entire face pinched in pain as he bent forward to put them on.  
  
Watching Dean in pain was making Sam sick to his stomach. He moved over and sat down on the bed in front of where Dean stood. Since his brother had already managed to get his boxers on, Sam grabbed the jeans laying next to him and bent forward. “Don’t bend your back, just lift your leg.”  
  
Dean wanted to argue, but what was the point? He placed his hand on Sam’s shoulder to keep steady, as he raised each of his legs to put into the jeans. “Remember when I used to do this with you, as a kid?”  
  
Sam pulled the jeans up until Dean could reach them, and Dean quickly buttoned them and slid the zipper into place before holding his hand out for his t-shirt. Sam handed it to him and looked up, watching as he gingerly pulled the shirt on. “Yeah. I remember you dressing me in every ugly pair of pants ever made.”  
  
Of course that was what Sam remembered. Dean shook his head and reached for the whiskey sitting nearby. He let Sam keep that memory; keep blaming Dean for the fact that they only had money for secondhand clothes.  
  
The door to the room was thrown open and Dean’s spine straightened on instinct as he saw his father step inside.  
  
“Come on, you lazy asses,” John growled. “Get your shit together, we gotta get on the road.”  
  
\- - -  
  
The next three weeks they were so busy hunting that the events of that awful night were all but forgotten. At least Sam never brought it up, anyway. Dean remembered everything every time he let his eyes slip closed. For the most part, he could hide his reactions, but sometimes some trigger would set him off and he would have no other course of action than to drown himself in alcohol.  
  
It didn’t take long for John to leave them again and they were stuck in another crappy motel in the middle of Wyoming. To make matters worse, it was Sunday and the liquor stores were closed. Dean could already feel the nightmares nagging at the back of his mind, so he sat up with a book and the television on, long after Sam had fallen asleep in his own bed.  
  
Sleep hit Dean before he knew it, and far before he wanted it to. The room was too dark; the bed too comfortable. His eyes were closed for only minutes before the nightmare started.  
  
He tried to fight back against the ghosts in the darkness, but they had him pinned down. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. The stench of sweaty skin and cigarette smoke burned at his nostrils. When a rough hand ripped his jeans down, he jumped up in bed with a cry, his heart pounding and his eyes darting around the room in panic.  
  
He was covered in sweat and fear, and the fact that he was hundreds of miles from the man that had raped him didn’t calm him at all. Dean pushed himself out of bed, trying not to wake his brother but finding it hard to walk straight. When he made it into the bathroom, he slammed the door shut in a rush and turned the sink faucet on to cold water. It would help, he promised himself. The water would help bring him back to reality.  
  
This time Sam didn’t wait thirty minutes. He didn’t know how much time passed until Sam was banging at the door but it felt almost instantaneous.  
  
“W-Wichita!” Dean barked out, his voice hoarse.  
  
There was a pause, then, “Bullshit, Dean,” came the response. “If that’s what you’re really doing in there then I’m the Duchess of York.”  
  
“Fuck off, Sam.” There was an edge of warning in his voice. “It’s none of your goddamn business what I’m doing. Go back to sleep.” He looked at himself in the mirror, cold water dripping from his face. Dean barely recognised the face he saw.  
  
The door opened and Dean gripped the edge of the sink as Sam’s tired eyes looked over him. He could practically _hear_ all of his brother’s thoughts. _Fuck_. He needed a fucking drink.  
  
A Winchester generally used that type of situation to become abrasive and tell each other to ‘man up’. Sam had spent most of his life hating bullshit phrases like that one. It was human nature to break down sometimes and need to be comforted. As he stared at his older brother, watching the trembling fear brewing just beneath Dean’s skin, he knew that Dean was a broken man.  
  
Sam stepped closer, laying his hand on Dean’s arm and turning him away from the sink so that they were facing one another. He looked into those scared green eyes and waited just a moment before he wrapped his arms around Dean and held him close.  
  
Dean tensed under Sam’s gangly embrace, but felt himself relax after Sam made it perfectly clear he wasn’t moving any time soon. He let himself melt into his brother, soaking up the warmth and comfort and familiar smell of the soap they shared.  
  
“I hate to tell you this, Dean,” Sam began, “but I think you’re jerking off wrong.”  
  
Dean barked out a laugh, he couldn’t help it. “Gross, dude.”  
  
Sam’s face grew serious once more as he pulled back and looked his brother in the eyes. “You gonna be able to sleep?”  
  
The thought of going back to a dark bed alone was enough to send Dean’s heart racing again. His breath quickened and he pushed Sam away a little as he looked at the floor and tried to calm himself. “I think I’ll just sit up and watch some tv for a bit,” he managed to say.  
  
“I’ll watch with you,” Sam said, waiting for Dean to make an argument against that plan. None came.  
  
When they were both back in the main part of the room, Dean grabbed a bottle of water and sat back down on his bed. Sam sat on the opposite bed, picking up the remote and turning the television up a little louder. Despite the fact that there was noise and another person awake near him Dean still couldn’t seem to relax. He drank his water for a moment, before pulling it away from his lips when he noticed his hands still shaking as they held the bottle.  
  
He didn’t like any of the feelings or emotions he was dealing with. In fact, he hated every single one of them. He was not a weak baby that needed to be coddled and soothed back to sleep. He was a man. Damn it, he was a _Winchester!_  
  
Ten minutes passed before he finally broke. Standing, he walked around to the opposite side of Sam’s bed, the side without a gigantic moose laying on it, and he sat down. Just a little closer to Sammy than normal. The room was cold, he argued internally, it was smarter to sit close together.  
  
“Can’t see the screen from my bed,” was the excuse he gave his brother.  
  
“Sure,” Sam remarked, a smirk dancing across his lips. “What do you want to watch?”  
  
“I don’t fuckin’ know.” Dean considered. “We get the Food Network here?”  
  
“I doubt it. But let me check PBS.” He flicked through the channels until he found it. “Here we go. This okay?”  
  
“Yeah, this is good.”  
  
“You sure?” Sam sounded skeptical of his brother’s ability to make sound decisions as the woman on the television started talking about “boeuf bourguignon.”  
  
“Yes, man. Julia Child’s the shit. You know she was like a fucking spy, right?”  
  
The words were so close to Dean’s normal personality that Sam was reassured, at least for the moment. When he set the remote down and snuggled back on the bed he made it so that the movement back pushed his body closer to Dean’s, until their sides were touching and they were sharing a line of body heat.  
  
The sheets were still pushed down to the edge of the bed from when Sam had jumped up in a rush earlier, so he reached down and pulled them up. Dean didn’t say a word, watching the television intently. By the time the show changed to a new program, Sam’s arm was wrapped around Dean and his brother’s head laid against his shoulder.  
  
\- - -  
  
Over the next couple of months, whenever John left them alone and Dean would have a bad night, he would whisper “Wichita” and Sam would move into his bed. Having the protection of his brother beside of him, sometimes even wrapped around him, was enough to keep the nightmares at bay. He would just never admit by daylight just how much he needed it.  
  
They slowly started to move on. The bad nights happened less and less. If John, when he was around, ever noticed anything different about either of his sons he never said anything.  
  
Everything was going fine until one evening a knock sounded on their room door while Sam was in the shower. Dean opened the door and arched an eyebrow at the wiry-looking man standing on the other side. He recognised the motel’s manager from the front desk.  
  
The guy looked up and down Dean’s body nervously before finally speaking. “Your uh… your card was declined, sir. I went to run it for the new week and it wouldn’t go through.”  
  
Shit. Dean glanced back into the room, knowing already that the fifty dollars stuffed in his duffel wouldn’t be enough to cover more than a night. And unfortunately John had taken the Impala with him on a hunt, leaving Sam and Dean without an immediate car.  
  
“I’m sorry about that,” he replied, looking back at the manager. “My dad has the money with him at work. He works graveyard over at the mill. Can I bring it to you first thing in the morning?” He put on his best pleading expression, but knew it would never be as good as Sam’s puppy dog eyes.  
  
The guy waited a moment, before finally nodding. “Yeah, that’s fine. You guys have been quiet and respectful; I trust you to get it to me.”  
  
The manager left and Dean shut the door, thankful that his brother was still in the shower. It was already past sunset, so hopefully he could find a few willing pool gamblers at the bar downtown.  
  
He wrote Sam a note, saying he would be back in a few hours, and grabbed his jacket before walking out.  
  
\- - -  
  
  
Strike one in the category of ‘bad luck’. Dean was good, but the patrons of that particular bar were apparently better that night. He stared at the burly biker in front of him and tried to think of a solution. He couldn’t go back to the motel with twenty dollars less than he had started with. They would get kicked out and then only have thirty dollars to put towards finding not just shelter, but food.  
  
It was a good thing he had noticed the guy checking out his ass most of the night. One little suggestion, one small offer, and they were heading out of the bar. Dean had to ball his hand into a fist to keep it from shaking. “Just a blowjob,” he told the guy. It wouldn’t get them the money for the motel, but it would keep him from needing to pay his debt.  
  
“Whatever you say, sweet cheeks,” the man grunted, working to undo his fly.  
  
Panic rose up like bile in Dean’s throat. He squashed the feeling down. He could _do it_. He would be fine; it wasn’t like he’d never blown a guy in an alley before.  
  
The guy shoved him to his knees with a glare and produced a dick that smelled so bad Dean wanted to throw up. A hand tangled in his hair and yanked his head back as the cock brushed along his lips that were still closed.  
  
He could do it. He could. For Sammy.  
  
As soon as Dean’s lips parted, 6’4” and 185 pounds of pure muscle slammed into the man and knocked him to the ground. Dean watched in shock as his brother knocked the biker out with one solid punch. He was still kneeling on the ground when Sam’s fury-laced gaze landed on him.  
  
“Get the fuck up.” It was harsh, but Sam didn’t care. When Dean was standing, Sam poked his chest with a finger. “Stop doing this. Stop thinking you can solve every fucking problem on your own, Dean!”  
  
The guy on the ground let out a groan. Sam kicked his side and looked back at his brother, who had yet to speak. It was obvious that bad memories and fear were overshadowing any aggravation.  Shaking his head, Sam wrapped his arm around Dean’s shoulder and turned to lead him out of the alley.  
  
“I lost,” Dean finally grumbled when they were halfway back to the motel. “I lost half of what little money we had and I had to get it back, Sam!” He shrugged Sam’s touch away and crossed his arms over his chest. “We’re going to get kicked out of the room. And Dad isn’t supposed to be back for another week!”  
  
“Which is why you should have _talked_ to me instead of running off all gung-ho ready to prostitute yours--” Sam caught himself, remembering how that word had affected his brother before. He took a deep breath and stared at Dean. “I talked to the manager. He came back because he forgot to mention the actual total that was due. Turns out he’s a pretty nice guy. And when I told him how we were low on money and looking for work, he suggested we do some work for him.”  
  
Dean stared back at Sam, trying to comprehend what his brother was saying. “What?”  
  
“He said two of his rooms got some water damage from a busted pipe a couple weeks ago. He’s been trying to collect money to redo the carpets and walls. If we do the work, he’ll let us stay this week for free.”  
  
Speechless, Dean continued walking back toward the motel. He was reminded of how much like their father he was. In his mind it was always ‘shoot first, ask questions later’. Sam, however, took a completely different approach; always willing to ask questions in search of a better solution.  
  
It pissed him off. Why did Sam have to be so great at figuring stuff out? Dean had spent all of his life protecting Sam, and what had it added up to? Sam was the one getting them both out of messes now? Dean kept brooding the entire way back to their room, half angry that the situation had not gone how he’d wanted _at all_ , half deathly embarrassed that his brother had practically caught him with a dick in his mouth.  
  
Once back inside the relative safety and anonymity of their room Dean busied himself in the kitchen. Knowing they’d be able to buy at least some sort of food in the coming week made him feel he could freely help himself to the last can of tinned ravioli. Although he was doing his best to ignore Sam he could tell his brother was not letting him out of his sight.  
  
“I’m not gay,” he said to the room at large as he dumped the opened can into a pot on the stove.  
  
“I never said you were,” retorted Sam.  
  
“I just don’t want you to get any wrong ideas, okay? I still like chicks.”  
  
While Dean stirred the ravioli, Sam leaned against one of the room’s chairs and picked at its upholstery. “Dean,” he finally forced out, “were you going to let that guy fuck you?”  
  
“Jesus Sam, no!” Dean turned and glared at his brother. “I just told you I’m not fucking gay!”  
  
“Dean, that’s not--”  
  
“Not what? Not what you’re _implying_? ‘Cause it sure fucking sounds like it!”  
  
Sam let out a sigh and turned away, leaving Dean to his food. He didn’t know how to explain to his brother that it wouldn’t matter if Dean was gay. What mattered was that he once again was willing to put himself in danger just to avoid sharing the burden with Sam.  
  
When John left them without money- which was fairly frequently- he fucked up both of their lives. And Sam was finally eighteen; it was time Dean started treating him like an adult.  
  
They both fell into a silence that lasted throughout the rest of the evening. Sam was in his boxers, tucked beneath his blanket, before Dean finally spoke up again.  
  
“It’s just sometimes, Sam.”  
  
Without context, the words hurt his head. Sam rolled over to face his brother and frowned. “What?”  
  
“That one douchebag not included, sometimes…” Dean sat on the edge of his bed, focusing on the book in his hands and obviously trying to figure out how to word what he wanted to say. “Sometimes I want both cake and pie.”  
  
He understood the metaphor. “There isn’t anything wrong with keeping your options open, Dean.” He propped his head up. “Well… as long as you don’t start actually fucking desserts.” It was a joke, of course, and when Dean smiled it made Sam happy to know that it was well received.  
  
“If Dad found out…”  
  
Sam rolled his eyes. “You don’t actually think I would tell Dad, do you?”  
  
His brother’s shoulder raised in a shrug before falling back down. His eyes were trained on the dirty motel room floor, his brow knit tight in concentration.  
  
Eighteen years had been long enough for Sam to learn ‘Dean code’. That particular moment called for the always helpful act of: _you told me a secret, now I will tell you one so you don’t feel bad._ Sam slowly sat up, mimicking Dean’s pose and feeling their knees bump slightly in the space between the beds.  
  
“I was jealous,” he finally admitted. Dean looked up at him, concentration turning to confusion. “When I saw you in that alley,” Sam tried to clarify. “I know it seems like I did that to protect you, and I did, but I was also jealous… seeing you down on your knees in front of someone else.”  
  
His brother remained silent, prompting Sam to fidget with his fingernails and rub his hand along the back of his neck. To put it in Dean’s language of dessert metaphors: Sam had just admitted to liking pie, cake, and _ice cream_. It wasn’t his fault that ice cream was always there for him.  
  
He ducked his head suddenly, embarrassment heating the back of his neck as he pictured Dean covered in chocolate syrup with a cherry on the top of his head.  
  
Talk about delicious desserts.  
  
“Dude.” Dean finally spoke up. He was watching Sam closely, that much was apparent, because he could obviously tell that Sam was having dirty thoughts. “Are you…” he lowered his voice, “are you picturing me doing things to you?”  
  
“No!” He squeezed his eyes shut and tried _not_ to think about licking chocolate off of Dean’s…  
  
“Sammy!”  
  
He blinked his eyes open and finally looked up at his brother. He had a feeling his cheeks were red. “Sorry.” It was wrong. His feelings… his love for ice cream was wrong. Shaking his head, he moved back under the sheets of his bed and laid back. “Forget it, Dean.” With that, he rolled to face the wall.  
  
The room grew quiet, making Sam’s thoughts even louder in his mind. He felt like a stupid kid, and not for the first time in his life. The problem wasn’t just that though, because he also felt selfish for trying to force his own feelings onto his brother at a time when Dean had enough shit on his plate.  
  
Sam’s eyes were closed, preventing him from seeing the figure moving around to the opposite side of his bed. He felt the mattress dip though, and the air shifting as Dean laid down beside him. Sam blinked his eyes open, watching his brother lay back in the light of the bedside lamp.  
  
“What are you doing?” he whispered.  
  
Dean turned his head and smiled. “Wichita.”  
  
The word felt heavy, and the air around it electric. Whatever meaning it had once held, its current implication was clear. Whatever Dean needed at that moment, it included Sam. Dean rolled onto his side so he was facing Sam. He didn’t come in quickly; instead, every inch closer that he moved seemed spaced out, like he was giving Sam as much opportunity as possible to say no. To put a stop to the whole crazy idea.  
  
But Sam stayed still. He was going to let this play out.  
  
Unobstructed, Dean moved in close enough that their chests were almost touching. For as crazy of an idea as it was, when Dean finally reached the moment… he didn’t hesitate. He found his brother’s lips and knew immediately that it was _right_. The kiss was brief but it carried with it the weight of so many years. Years that they had no one else but the other to rely on. To trust.  
  
“Thank you,” Dean said, and it was barely above a whisper, “for earlier.”  
  
 _Ice cream tasted fantastic_. Sam wanted to move slowly, the way his brother had - show the kind of restraint that came with those extra four years of experience - but he couldn’t. His movements were rushed as he pushed Dean onto his back and leaned over him, going for another kiss, another taste.  
  
The amount of kissing knowledge that Sam had was miniscule. Their lifestyle didn’t allow for having many girlfriends, and he had always been more interested in school. When he was kissing Dean, though, he knew that his brother would never mock his technique or make fun of him for a lack of skill. It took the pressure off and allowed him to just focus on the feelings.  
  
And there were a _lot_ of feelings.  
  
His body was on fire, and he had to pull back, resting his head on Dean’s shoulder as he gasped for breath. It would be a lie to say that he wasn’t turned on, but a tiny voice in the back of his head warned him not to react like the men Dean had dealt with recently.  
  
Dean placed soft kisses along the expanse of Sam’s neck, his hand trailing up and down his brother’s back. “We should probably take this slow, Sammy.”  
  
If he groaned, it was only instinct. His body was worked up and damn it, Sam didn’t want to take it slow. But he knew, beneath the lust and the desire, that Dean was right. He relaxed, laying against Dean’s side and throwing one of his legs over his brother’s. One last kiss, and he moved his head to rest it on Dean’s chest - listening to the relaxing heartbeat that used to lull him to sleep when he was younger. It still worked.  
  
“G’night, Sammy,” Dean whispered.  
  
\- - -  
  
Replacing carpet and painting walls was a lot of work. Though it felt good to work in what was basically his first honest job, Dean couldn’t say that it wasn’t exhausting.  
  
It took them three days to finish, and once they had Dean didn’t complain when Sam asked the manager if there was anything else that they could help with. There was no shortage of things that needed fixing at the little place, but the manager had never quite found anyone full-time to deal with it all. A list of tasks was given over readily, and they worked for eight hours each day fixing everything from a busted toilet, to a bed that had broken when the tenants got a little carried away.  
  
On Friday night, Sam stepped out of the shower and stared at his brother. He was wearing nothing more than a towel around his waist, causing Dean’s brain to fry for a moment and requiring him to ask Sammy to repeat what he had just said.  
  
The kid had the audacity to smirk, but did as he was told. “I like this. I like… working like this. Having a place to stay, a job. You. I hate to admit it, Dean, but I’m really dreading having Dad come back.”  
  
The same thought had run through his mind. Multiple times. He enjoyed hunting and helping his father, but it did have moments when it got old. Especially recently when John would leave them without money or any means to get by. But the good little soldier inside of him knew that hunting was their life, and they would never be able to break free from it. “It’s nice, Sammy,” he admitted with a shrug. “But Dad will be back tomorrow and we’ll have to move on.”  
  
For a moment Sam’s guard was down and Dean watched disappointment pass over his brother’s face. It came and went in the blink of an eye and suddenly Sam was moving towards where Dean stood.  
  
“If Dad does come back tomorrow, and this is our last night here, then let’s eat some ice cream.”  
  
“What?” Dean asked in confusion. “Ice cream?”  
  
Sam pressed forward into Dean’s personal space, backing him up against the kitchen counter and pinning him there with an arm at each of his sides. “Wichita," Sam growled, and he gripped Dean’s face and kissed him, _hard_.  
  
That time Sam didn’t try to control himself. He let the heat flood through him and deepened the kiss. His hips moved forward, grinding against Dean’s thigh and showing the older man just how much Sam _liked_ ice cream.  
  
“Sammy,” Dean breathed, his words muffled in the kiss.  
  
Sam moved his lips down to Dean’s neck to allow him to speak, but he didn’t stop or slow. No, he was on a mission… one which included stripping Dean of the excessive layers of clothing that he always seemed compelled to wear.  
  
Dean was struggling to put words together into sentence form. His brain had short-circuited somewhere between ‘Wichita’ and _Oh God Sammy is hard as a rock_. “Ungh. Sammy… are you sure about this? I thought you liked girls.”  
  
His little brother snorted, as he broke away from Dean’s kiss long enough to pull the t-shirt up and over his head. “You’re my brother. We’re standing in the kitchen making out… and you’re worried because _I should like girls_?”  
  
So maybe Dean’s brain was not receiving proper blood flow at the moment. “Was just checkin’,” he mumbled with a pout.  
  
Sam found the look incredibly endearing - and promptly bit on Dean’s bottom lip before kissing him again. His hands ran down taut skin and just the _slightest_ stomach pudge, before grasping the clasp of Dean’s jeans. A flick of the wrist and they were unbuttoned. One small move and they were unzipped. But Sam left them hanging open as he moved his hand to rub along the hardness pressing up against the denim.  
  
They both moaned into the kiss. Sam wouldn’t deny that it was refreshing to know Dean was just as excited as he was. He moved his hand slowly, massaging Dean’s cock and rutting his own against his brother’s thigh.  
  
The kiss broke when Dean pulled back. He had a smirk on his face as he moved with the grace of someone who had experience. Before he knew what was happening, Sam was the one with his back pressed against the counter.  
  
Dean placed a trail of kisses down Sam’s chest, before easily kneeling in front of him on the kitchen floor. As soon as Sam saw green eyes peering up at him, he felt a shudder run down his spine. He _knew_ his cock had to be leaking beneath the towel he was wearing.  
  
Or not wearing.  
  
The object fell to the floor and suddenly his cock was bare and _so fucking close_ to Dean’s mouth. “Please,” he begged, the word drawn out like a keen, and sounding like he used to when he wanted the last cookie.  
  
His brother smirked, wrapping his hand around the base of Sam’s cock as he leaned forward and flicked his tongue out - subsequently licking up all of the leaking precome. Sam’s head fell back automatically at the feeling and slammed into the upper cabinets. He couldn’t be bothered to care, though, because the pleasure Dean was giving him far outweighed any pain in his head.  
  
The sight of Dean wrapping his lips around a cock and taking as much into his mouth as possible was something that Sam wished he could photograph and keep with him forever. It was the type of thing that would put porn magazines out of business because it was so fucking hot. His hips shifted up on instinct as his hands dug into his brother’s short hair and tried to guide his movements.  
  
Ever the older sibling in charge, Dean was in no hurry to let Sam take control. His hand landed on Sam’s hip to keep his body in place while his mouth moved up and down off of his cock without any awareness of what Sam’s hands were trying to force. It was Dean’s show, and Sam was just along for a glorious ride.  
  
“Dean?” Sam whispered, trying to fight through the cloud of arousal in order to form coherent sentences. “Can I ask you something?”  
  
His brother pulled back, letting Sam’s cock pop free from his mouth and staring at him like he was insane. “I’m a bit busy--”  
  
It was painful losing the wet contact of Dean’s mouth and Sam wasn’t ready to let go, he didn’t want his body to betray him like that. But he needed to know. “Do you… like it? Sex, I mean. With… a guy?”  
  
“Sammy,” unable to resist the urge to touch, Dean’s hand wrapped back around Sam’s dick, “are you trying to ask me if I like anal?”  
  
A thumb flicked through leaking precome and he hissed, eyes squeezed shut again and fists gripping the countertop. “Maybe?”  
  
Dean took a long moment to contemplate the question. There had, of course, been a couple of guys _before_ the one he dared not think about. And if he was being honest with himself, he had enjoyed those encounters. “Yes.”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
He nodded, “Yeah, I do. Why?”  
  
Sam gasped, shifting his hips forward to make Dean keep stroking. “I want to try it. I want… you.”  
  
His brother smirked and slowly stood. Lips brushed against Sam’s earlobe. “You want me to fuck you?” To punctuate the question, Dean’s grip tightened.  
  
All Sam could manage was to bite his bottom lip and nod his head.  
  
“Say please, Sammy.”  
  
“Please.” He turned his head to find Dean’s lips, mumbling yet another ‘please’ into a deep kiss.  
  
The kiss started a frenzy of bed and lube and ‘ _damn it Sam, stop touching yourself for one minute while I do this._ ’ Something about watching Sam stroke his own cock reminded Dean of all the whispered ‘Wichita’s’ when they were younger. Now there was no need for hiding in the bathroom, because _Wichita_ meant ‘I need you’ not ‘I need to be alone.’ That thought alone made Dean’s cock throb and his body temperature skyrocket. After getting what he needed from the bedside dresser Dean settled himself on his knees behind Sam, who was breathing heavily into the pillows, his body shaking ever so slightly. Dean paused opening the bottle of lube to pepper kisses up and down Sam’s spine.  
  
He slicked up a finger and, after a few light presses against Sam’s hole, slipped it in. After another finger and too many minutes, according to Sam’s pleas, of making sure his brother was ready, Dean ripped open the condom wrapper.  
  
Sam looked back just in time to see Dean roll the latex on himself. “We don’t need that, do we?”  
  
“Better safe than sorry, baby bro.”  
  
All suited up, Dean finally pressed inside of tight heat that felt so good it was enough to render them both speechless. It was better than normal, because it wasn’t just sex, it was _Sam._ Someone he knew. Someone he loved more than life itself.  
  
The world slowly dissipated around them as Dean took his time building up a steady rhythm. He relished each soft grunt and groan he pushed out of Sam. Ignoring his own impending orgasm, Dean focused on his brother, rolling his hips just right to brush over Sam’s prostate and cause him to shudder. He reached his hand around to grasp his brother’s cock and stroked in time with his own thrusts.  
  
Though Sam had more control than most males his age, the sensations were suddenly overwhelming and he cried out Dean’s name as he came onto the worn motel bedspread. Sam’s body clenched tight and the sensation sent Dean over the edge as well. The immediate afterglow was overwhelming, causing Dean to lean forward and place gentle kisses on Sam’s back as he tried to make it back down to earth. He collapsed onto his side as Sam did the same next to him, their bodies slick with sweat. Dean peeled the condom off and tossed it in the trashcan next to the bed.  
  
“I can see why you like it,” Sam mumbled after a while. He rolled over and groaned when his stomach hit the sticky mess on the blanket. “I need a shower.”  
  
Dean rolled away, falling onto his back beside his brother. “You can go first, I’m going to need a minute--”  
  
By the time Sam got up and stumbled into the bathroom, Dean was already asleep.  
  
\- - -  
  
Sam was awake before the sun rose. After only a couple of hours of sleep, he had become restless under thoughts of John’s impending return. He didn’t want to leave. He liked the town, and the room, and the motel manager, who’d said he could find them as much work as possible if they wanted to hang around.  
  
And, perhaps most importantly, he liked the Dean that lived there in that moment - carefree and relaxed. Not a hunter, just a normal guy. Dean had his demons, sure. He still drank a little too much, and woke in the night trembling and covered in sweat more nights than he would ever admit. But Sam could see Dean getting better. Maybe not in the immediate future, but he’d get there.  
  
Every day there was a little more light in Dean’s eyes. Sam knew that Dean felt an ease in working with his hands that he could never feel around John. And as selfish as it probably was, Sam wanted to see through whatever they had become the night before. If they went back to John it would never be anything more than whispers of moments in time.  
  
Sam wanted more. It had to be all or nothing.  
  
The alarm went off at seven and Sam sat at the kitchen table watching as Dean woke slowly and got dressed, running on autopilot. He glanced up to smile at Sam, but didn’t say a word as he finished lacing his boots and moved on to methodically packing up his things.  
  
None of Sam’s stuff was packed. It wouldn’t be.  
  
When John burst through the door twenty minutes later, barking at them to hurry up so they could get on the road, Sam just shook his head.  
  
“I’m not going,” he said calmly.  
  
Dean and his father both turned to look at him - one in shock and one in anger. John spoke first, “Yes you are. Get your ass in the car, boy.”  
  
He crossed his arms over his chest and forced himself to remain calm. He was an _adult_ and he needed to prove it. “No. I’ve made my decision and I’m not doing this anymore. I don’t want to be a hunter.”  
  
Dean’s eyes were clouded with emotion as he watched the scene play out. “Sammy?” he mumbled, pleading without words for his brother to reconsider.  
  
The younger Winchester didn’t dare look at him though, for fear of giving in. Dean was the only one he would break for.  
  
“Enough with the games, Sam.” John’s voice took on a sharp edge. “Let’s go.”  
  
Sam stood his ground.  
  
“All right then.” John turned to Dean. “Put your shit in the car, Dean. We’re going to be late, thanks to the drama queen here.”  
  
As his father and brother walked out, Sam bit his lip to keep his resolve. His future depended on it.  
  
He didn’t cry until he heard the Impala speed away.  
  
\- - -  
  
As they left the parking lot, Dean’s head was still spinning. His brain didn’t know whether to be furious or devastated.  
  
Thirty minutes later, Dean became more and more convinced that Sam had done nothing wrong. He had. Since they’d left John hadn’t mentioned Sam’s name once. He went on and on about their next case like nothing had happened. Dean watched the mile markers pass by, counting each one in his head until it was suddenly too much.  
  
He loved his father, and he took pride in being the strong soldier John had trained him to be but, he knew in his gut, which each mile that they drove, that leaving Sam was wrong. Even without taking the previous night into consideration, Dean and Sam were two parts that made a whole. They had spent their whole lives surviving together.  
  
John was too small a part of that. And it only took thirty-two minutes for Dean to realize that he had made a mistake.  
  
“Pull over,” he said.  
  
“What?” John stopped talking about where they could buy good ammo long enough to turn to Dean in confusion. “You have to piss already? God, Dean, I leave you for one fucking week and you go soft--”  
  
“Pull the fucking car over.” His voice was dark and demanding, and the ‘no bullshit’ tone was one he had never had the nerve to use on his father.  
  
The Impala stopped on the side of the highway and Dean climbed out of the passenger seat before opening the back door and grabbing his duffel bag.  
  
John shut the engine off and jumped out, looking ready to fight. “What the hell are you doing, Dean?” He threw his hands into the air in anger. “I raised you better than this!”  
  
“You know what, Dad?” Dean gave his father a sinister smile. “No, you fucking didn’t. I raised myself. Hunting came first, and Sam and I were always second. It’s bullshit, and Sammy is right… it’s no life to live.” He glanced over his shoulder, down the highway that would lead back to Sam. “And it’s taken me way too long to realize this but… I fucking love ice cream. And I’m going to spend the rest of my life enjoying every blissful bite of it.”  
  
Without waiting for his father’s reply, he threw the duffel over his shoulder and began walking. He heard a very confused _‘ice cream?’_ but knew he would never need to describe it. No one but Sammy would understand.  
  
It was going to be a long walk, but it was worth it. Wichita was waiting at the end of that highway.  
  
\- - -  
  
The end.


End file.
